


The Wilds

by anonymouscactus



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Divorce, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Lumberjack!Bucky, Mentions of Emotional Abuse, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, mentions of cheating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2020-05-07 05:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19203049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymouscactus/pseuds/anonymouscactus
Summary: After a bitter divorce, you seek solace in the wilds of Alaska. Unbeknownst to you, it’ll change you in ways you could have never imagined.





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> A new series for you all. Hope you enjoy!

The envelope feels heavy in your hands, though the words within it will bring a lightness to your heart you haven’t felt in years. Your fingers tap out a rhythm against the paper, gaze steady as it meets your attorney’s sympathetic one. These papers have been a long time coming, and right now you’re not sure if you want to laugh, scream, or cry. Months of tears, anger, resentment, frustration, self-blame—not to mention the years of suffering before this moment—all of it has come down to this. Never did you think you’d be _relieved_ to receive divorce papers, much less sign them, but neither did you expect your marriage to take the turn it did.

Your attorney watches you carefully as your fingers peel open the manila envelope. The divorce papers are crisp, outlining the agreement that, as of today, your marriage is terminated. Colorful tabs mark where initials are required. Both your and your ex’s signatures are scribbled on the bottom of the last page, finalizing the agreed-upon terms contained within the pages. You know what each page says, have pored for hours over every single word, every single detail, that you could probably recite it back to front from memory. Your gaze settles on the loopy scrawl of your, now _ex_ , husband, eyes misting over a bit.0

It’s bittersweet, this moment. On the one hand, a long, tiresome chapter of your life has now been closed. On the other, you’re not sure where you go from here. The lease on your apartment is up soon, but you kind of don’t want to go back there. It’s small, even for you, and is so sparse in decoration that it only serves as a sore reminder of the fact that your husband had hired an interior decorator. He’s keeping all of that, apparently, according to the document in your hands.

He’s keeping the car, your cat—the cat which he didn’t even _want_ in the first place yet somehow believes the cat likes him better—and the penthouse apartment he’d bought for the both of you when you first decided to move in together. _He needs the space_ , he’d said, _because Lizzie has a shopping problem._  

Your throat closes up a little. _Lizzie_ . The woman who’d taken your place in your husband’s—ex’s—heart. _Boy, that would take some getting used to._  

You’d known about her, hell you’d even met her, fought about her countless times, warred with yourself and your husband. _You’re never here anymore. You’re always so moody. You never want to be intimate anymore. If you’d just put out, I wouldn’t have had to go elsewhere._ Always a different excuse, always your fault. 

For a while, you hadn’t been sure he’d let you leave, and you felt trapped, stuck in a house with a man who no longer wanted you yet refused to set you free. Until a large manila envelope had shown up in the mail, and the words **_Divorce Agreement_ ** glared up at you. You’d scoffed derisively; your wonderful husband had taken that choice away from you as well. There was little you were allowed to govern in your own life; your husband had been very…. _traditional_ , he’d called it. 

 _Archaic_ , you’d argue now. _Not then, never then. Back then you didn’t have a backbone._  

Even now, you’re not sure how strong your backbone is, but already you can feel it twisting and bending and snapping back into place. It leaves you a little breathless in the office, but deep in the recesses of your mind you know it’s because you can actually _breathe_ again. No more checking in, no more asking permission, no more catering to anyone except yourself. 

The tears come suddenly and heavily, as does relieved laughter. You set the stapled packet down on the desk in front of you to avoid getting them wet; you jokingly consider framing the damn thing. Covering your eyes with your hands, you bend forward in our chair, sucking in deep lungfuls of breath even as you try to catch it. Your chest feels lighter, the tremendous weight of carrying your marriage lifting, lifting, until it disappears entirely. 

The rolling of a chair across carpet, a gentle hand on your shoulder as your attorney offers you the comfort you’d previously rejected. She knows how rough this journey has been, knows every intimate, gory detail of your marriage, knows how huge this moment is for you. For a while she’d doubled as a therapist, until she convinced you to see a real one, one who was qualified to help you climb the hurdles your husband had placed before your self-confidence, unfairly high and indestructible.

She lets you take as much time as you need to find yourself again and offers you a box of Kleenex to clean up your tear-stained face and running nose. Grimacing, you toss a wad of tissues into her trash can and then sit back, shoulders slumping with relief. Your attorney has returned to her chair, smiling fondly. 

“So, now that you’re a free woman, what’s next?”

* * *

 “A vacation?” comes your mother’s tight voice. “Are you sure that’s wise?” 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and exhale deeply in attempt to reign in your rising annoyance. “Yes, Mother, I’m sure. I need some time to recollect myself.” 

“Well, what does your husband think of this?” 

You grit your teeth. You remind her, “Ex-husband, Mother.” 

She sniffs condescendingly down the phone at you. “Yes, well, whose fault is that one?” 

You’re tempted to throw the glass in your hand. You’re on your third glass; your husband had never allowed more than one drink every other night, claiming it wasn’t healthy. _Fuck healthy_ , you think as you take a hefty swallow of the tangy red. 

Your relationship with your mother has always been strained; at least, until you married your husband, and all of a sudden she was a nominee for World’s Best Mom. She prided herself on the fact that she’d brought you together, and your bitter mind couldn’t help but hold her just slightly accountable for the hell you’d lived. 

“ _His_ , Mother. He had an affair,” you hiss, though you know it will fall on deaf ears. Your mother and your husband, both very similar in their beliefs of the role a woman should play in a man’s life, you think they’d be perfect for one another, if your mother was into younger men. You’ve lost count of how many times over the course of the past months you’ve explained everything to her, though not in such intimate detail.

 Growing up a socialite, your mother had a penchant for gossip, and she was never shy about admitting that even her own daughters were safe from being the subject of gossip between her and her uppity friends. It was a world to which you had never belonged.

You pull the phone away from your ear as your mother launches into another tirade of how your divorce is your own doing. Your laptop sits upon the countertop, web browser open to a travel site. You scroll through flights and hotels, though none of the tropical destinations recommended for you are doing much of anything for you.

It’s when your mother idly mentions your stepfather’s hunting cabin that you zone back in. “Wait, Mom, say that again?”

“What, that you neglected your marriage? Pushed your darling husband away?” she sneers. You scrunch your nose and wave your hand dismissively, even though she can’t see it.

“No, no, the other thing, about Father’s cabin.”

She scoffs. “That rundown old thing? It’s as neglected as your marriage was, dear.”

Ignoring her, you ask, “Where was it again?”

“Heavens, you don’t expect me to remember do you?” she asks, affronted. You roll your eyes. “Somewhere in Alaska, I believe. Why?”

“Because that’s where I’m going.”


	2. I.

Alaska is as breathtaking as you remember, despite the fact that it’s been close to twenty years since you’ve visited. There are more buildings in the cities. But beyond, out in the wilderness, it’s vast, green, an endless, flat landscape until the terrain cuts sharply up into the mountains, stretches for miles until it bleeds into the ocean. Instantly you know you’ve made the right decision.

The plane ride takes an hour and a half at most, for which you’re thankful because it’s small and cramped in the cockpit and if not for the beautiful view you might’ve thrown up. The pilot lands along a narrow runway, a strip of pavement that barely looks wide enough to fit a pickup truck, let alone a two-passenger plane. The aircraft shakes as it descends, bounces once, twice, _thrice_ on the landing strip until it bounces one final time and just coasts. 

The craft comes to a stop at the end of the runway, next to a building you assume houses the planes overnight. Your knuckles are stiff, cracking as you flex them when you release the armrest. The pilot stays silent as he climbs out, setting his headset on the seat. You follow, a little less gracefully, and hop to the pavement. Your legs are stiff, your back cracks in three places as you stretch, and you’re so hungry the pilot’s hat had begun to look appetizing. As far as plane rides went, that wasn’t too terrible.

You huff quietly as your bags are none-too-gracefully dropped to the pavement by the pilot but remain silent. If you remember correctly, Alaskan natives aren’t always pleasant, especially in the more rural, less populated areas. Inside the little office in front of the plane hangar, you ask the woman at the front desk for the number to a taxi service. 

It shows up fifteen minutes later. You give the driver the name of the cabin, Shady Glen, and he appears to think about it for a moment before it seems to click. He hits the gas and speeds away from the tiny airport, leading you further into the Alaskan wilderness. You play on your phone during the drive, catch up on emails, check in with the couple of friends with whom you’ve reconciled.

That part was hard, you admit, harder than you thought it would be. A lot of your friends hadn’t taken lightly to being essentially cut off, dropped out of the blue, and while some of them understood and forgave you, others weren’t so quick to do so. One of the more painful responses came in the form of: “I never thought _you_ of all people would be so weak as to let someone else control you.” 

She’d been right. Growing up with a mother like yours, one tended to grow a thick skin. And yet all it took from your husband were some pretty words and flowers and you’d been putty, pliant and flexible, twisted and turned and formed into someone he could rule over. And you let him. You deserved to lose your friends, you reasoned. You were a terrible friend and an even worse wife. Solitude, it seemed, is what you were destined for.

The darkness clouds your mind during the drive, a rolling sea of self-hatred and insecurity and “what could I have done differently?” that threatens to pull you under. Your eyes lose focus as your mind wanders. To your husband— _ex_ —his affair, your family. A quiet scoff that has the driver’s eyes flicking to you in the rearview mirror. Your sister had been the only supportive one, offering to accompany you to Alaska, but you declined. Claimed you needed the space. It wasn’t an entire lie. 

City life was suffocating, filled with smog and people and noises all the time. Out here it’s quiet, peaceful. 

The taxi bumps along as it turns off the main road onto an unpaved driveway. Your memory of the place begins to clear; a mile-long dirt road stretches between you and Shady Glen, and emotion wells up within you. It’s been so long since you’ve been back; you wonder if the neighbors are still around, if Hank Myers still runs the little general store a couple miles away in town. 

A break in the trees reveals the hunting cabin to you, and momentarily, you wonder if you even have the right place. The shack in front of you is ramshackle, shutters falling off, the screen door swinging and banging loudly against the frame. The porch furniture is tipped over and scattered. This looks nothing like the place you used to love to visit. 

“Um, are you sure this is right?” you ask the driver unsurely, eyebrows drawn down in befuddlement.

“Only one Shady Glen,” he replies shortly, his voice rough and unkind. Repressing a sigh, you hand him some money, tell him to keep the change, and get out.

Your suitcases bump along the uneven ground. The taxi kicks up dirt as he roars off, leaving you to your solitude. Your teeth nibble on your bottom lip as you look the place over. It hadn’t exactly been in your plans to fix the joint, but part of you believes the work will do you some good.

The inside is worse off than the outside. A thick layer of dust covers every visible surface, cobwebs decorate the corners. The cabin is small, a combined kitchen and living room takes up most of the space. In the back, you know you’ll find the bedroom and the closet that serves as a bathroom. How your family ever made trips out here, together, is beyond you. It seemed so much bigger back then.

The full-size bed in the bedroom is decorated with about twenty layers of dust that turn the old quilt on top to a dull grey color. Sighing, you twist your hair back into a knot behind your head, set on getting to work. The quilt is the first to be taken care of. It kicks up a cloud of dust that has you coughing as you drag it out the front door. Your stepfather’s old clothesline still hangs between two trees, and so with a couple of pins, you hang up the quilt to beat the dust out later.

There’s a stitch in your back, right between your shoulder blades, as you bend to wipe up your sixteenth pile of dust. And that’s just from the bedroom floor. But a trip around with the mop has the wood gleaming. 

It’s slow going, tidying up. Bags upon bags of garbage left outside on the porch, the smell of window cleaner and dust and dirt. The sight of the kitchen nearly makes you gag, and bleach overpowers the smell of everything else. An ache in your arms from scrubbing the counters, the cabinets, the sink, with all of its caked-on grime.

The fridge looks like something a mad scientist experimented inside in a lab and it takes an hour to get it spotless.

By the time you stop for the day, you’re sore all over, but mentally you feel lighter than you have in a long time. The work you’ve done has barely put a dent in the mess, but the bedroom is livable and the kitchen will suffice.

You’ll need to go food shopping in the morning, but you settle for a hastily-made sandwich and a glass of wine you packed before carrying the latter into the bathroom for a well-deserved soak. While submerged halfway down in the hot bath water, you let your hands drift over the surface, creating a small tinkling sound as the water ripples back and forth.

It’s lulling, calming, and though your divorce had been finalized for all of a week, you can’t deny the peaceful aura that’s fallen over you, even after a hard day’s work. It feels strange, being on a solo vacation of sorts, but for once you don’t mind it. You’re far from lonely, and bitterly you blow bubbles on the water. You feel less lonely here, in a cabin alone in bumfuck Alaska, than you ever did while married to Shawn. And how sad is that?

Your throat tightens will the sudden rising emotion and you don’t try to stop it as you inhale shakily. How sad is it that the one person who you’d thought was meant for you turned out to be a complete stranger? A mere shadow of the man he really was. You’d fallen for his charm, his jokes, his charisma, his whole _being_ , and in the end he’d played you like a fiddle. Held your heart in his iron grip and crushed it.

But then you’d let him, hadn’t you? You’d been too stubborn, too desperate to save your marriage you let him do it, let him ruin you. Your desperation and your refusal to see him as he truly was ruined your marriage.

You should’ve tried harder to please him. Should have given in when he wanted to be intimate… You should’ve just _tried_. 

Maybe then you’d still have your friends. You’d still have an okay relationship with your mother. 

_It’s your fault._  

_Your fault._  

_Your fault._  

You stay in the tub until your fingers and toes are pruned, wine glass drained. Your head feels fuzzy from the alcohol, a pleasant looseness to your limbs as you towel off and throw on pajamas despite your mood taking a slight dip. 

The sun’s going down, casting the small cabin in a beautiful orange glow. Refilled wine glass in hand, you step out onto the musty porch to watch the sun descend behind the trees. It takes the warm air with it, leaving your skin prickling with gooseflesh. You pull your feet up underneath you and wrap your arms around your knees, a small attempt at warmth. 

But the coolness of the night is refreshing. The city is always so stifling, everybody packed together like sardines. You almost don’t know what to do with all this elbow room.  

When the sun is gone, and the forest begins waking up around you, you head inside. Tomorrow you’ll resume cleaning. The bed’s been completely stripped save for a single blanket, but it’s thick enough to suffice. The pillow is hard under your head, but a few wriggles and fists into it soften it enough for you to not feel like you’re lying on a cinderblock. 

Outside, the forest comes alive, and you fall into a deep sleep.


	3. II.

You’re stiff getting up the next morning, shoulders and back aching as you stretch. It’s a pleasant ache, though, one derived from busting ass, and it’s with that thought in mind that you head into the kitchen. You dig through your bags to find coffee grounds, a mug, sugar. Cream has already been put in the fridge once it had been bleached top to bottom. The coffee maker is a little rusty, a little slow to start, but it makes a mean cup of joe just like you remember. You fix it to your liking and take it to the porch to enjoy the morning before you continue cleaning.

 

Your cell phone has been silent (but admittedly you’d been too busy to check it the day before), though it buzzes now with a flurry of text messages. Mostly your mother, who’s questioning your whereabouts, have you talked to your husband,  _ why aren’t you answering _ , your sister checking in, your therapist also. You shoot off responses to the last two and leave your dear mother on read for a while.

 

Bones creaking as you stand, you bring your mug to the sink and prepare for another day of thorough cleaning.

 

Today it’s warm, and you air out the cabin by throwing open the windows, the door. You even break out a trendy playlist on your phone to play via auxiliary cable plugged into the stereo. You hum and even dance along a bit, feeling so overwhelmingly  _ happy _ for a moment that you don’t even notice the stitch in your back as you bend to sweep yet another dust pile into the pan.

 

It takes you another day and a half to get the cabin spotless and gleaming, but, with an aching back and sore shoulders, you relax on the living room couch that doesn’t smell like moth balls any longer. It’s still early, but you’re celebrating with something a little stronger than wine. The whiskey is strong on your tongue, but its burn is pleasant, its warmth as it settles in your belly welcoming.

 

The sleep you get that night is peaceful and deep, and you wake the next morning with a bit of a hangover but very well rested. Once again you drink your coffee on the porch, this time with your stepfather’s map in your lap. It’s open, displaying the layout of the area surrounding the small cabin.

 

You’re hit with nostalgia as your fingers drift over the rock formation you used to play on as a child with your cousins, the river you’d bathe in, the waterfall you’d jump from to your mother’s horror. It pulls at your mouth, little wistful smile curling up the corners. You wonder if it’s all still there, the same as it used to be. The best spots had been marked with small x’s, the cabin circled in blue with trails to each place spreading out from it like vines.

 

Your vision loses focus as you get lost in your memories, reliving all the fun moments you’ve had up here on family vacations. The giant bull moose with massive antlers walking in front of the cabin, the bear that stole your catch of the day when your stepfather took you fishing. Your mother had never been around for any of this, too caught up with her socializing and gossip to want to spend any time outdoors. Bitterly, you wonder if the stick would have been pulled out of her ass had she decided to join the family on one of these trips, but you brush the thought away.

 

You want to visit these again, so with your plan for the day in mind, you throw on a comfortable pair of pants, a long-sleeved shirt with a hoodie tied around your waist, and a pair of hiking boots you’re glad you decided to bring at the last second. Coffee mug in the sink, door locked, windows shut, map tucked under your arm.

 

A small pack with snacks and water sits high on your back, light enough that it won’t cause any discomfort. You set off into the woods to the right of the cabin, a small, unmarked trail and the map your only guides. It’s quiet between the trees, the wind and some songbirds your only company. Your steps are light, a slight bounce to them as you pick your way down the narrow trail, reveling in the sunshine, the breeze, the serenity between the trees.

 

Your first stop is the small rock formation. Your stepfather had called it “Weathertop”, both because he’s a massive Tolkien fan and because it’s stacked similarly to the structure in the film adaptation of The Fellowship of the Ring. He’d even labeled it on the map.

 

With a giddiness you haven’t felt in ages, you find a long stick, climb atop the formation, plant your feet at the top, and exclaim: “For it is not this day. This day, we fight!”

 

You thrust the stick in the air like a sword, and the sheer ridiculousness of it has you giggling. Feet back on the ground, you continue on your way with your walking stick, humming “Concerning Hobbits” under your breath. Your feet carry you deeper into the woods, until you come to the wide river in which you’d swim as a child. It’s slow-moving, shallow until it drops off in the middle, but there are boulders to get you across.

 

Your hiking boots keep traction on the slippery rocks, the tinkling river providing a peaceful soundtrack as you stop on a rock in the middle and take in your surroundings. There’s a peek of the mountains between the trees, a beautiful view of snow-capped ridges that you know stretch on for miles left and right.

 

The water is cold when you dip your feet in, set your shoes and socks aside. A little brisk, but its chill is welcome in the sun. You sit there for a little while, sip at your water bottle, bask in the quietude of the river for a little while, and then you resume your trek. You spot a few bunnies along the trail, hiding under bushes until they skitter out of sight.

 

A pair of sitka deer graze further off the trail; they’re difficult to see with their coats, but you watch them for some time, keeping quiet and still. Their ears flick back and forth, listening, while you continue on down the path.

 

Your final stop is the waterfall. Tucked in through the trees, it isn’t massive, but it’s quite a hike to the top. Steep and littered with rocks. You’re out of breath by the time you make it to the top, and the view itself takes it right away again. In the years since you’ve been gone, the branches have opened up to showcase more of the Alaskan wilderness—miles and miles of green that fade into blue-grey tundra, and, finally, rise up high into treacherous mountain peaks. 

 

Dropping your backpack, you carefully sit at the ledge of the waterfall, the roar of the water loud in your ears. The outdoors has done well for your mental state; you’ve hardly thought of Shawn, your divorce, your mother, all of it, since you stepped out the front door. Surprisingly, thinking of it all now doesn’t hurt quite as much. There’s still an ache, still a sting over the thought that you managed to fuck up a marriage, but it isn’t the agonizing heartbreak you’d felt before.

 

It’s just...there, and you accept it probably will be for a while. Which is okay. You’ve got your therapist on speed dial should you need her, and your sister as well who, so far, has been the only other support you’ve had.

 

You sit there for hours, working your way through your snacks and your water bottle that you refill in the river. Down below, you gasp as a moose and her calf step out of the trees into the water, the mother looking carefully around them. The calf is young, maybe only a few weeks, but sturdy on its long legs. It plays a bit in the knee-deep water while the mother drinks, and then they’re on their way across, disappearing on the other side.

 

When it starts to cool down, you decide to head back. Backpack on, you pause for a moment and creep closer to the edge of the waterfall, peering down. In your youth, you would have jumped without a lick of hesitation. Now, you’ve grown careful, and the drop into the pool below has your stomach swooping.

 

You get lost for a second inside your memories, of the time one of your cousins pushed your sister off, the very first time any of you even decided it was a good idea to jump. He thought he’d killed her, until she burst to the surface and screeched for everyone to do it too. “It’s way deep!” she’d cried.

 

The sound of boots scuffing on the rocks doesn’t register right away, and the voice that follows startles you so badly you nearly topple over the falls.

 

“Whatever it is you’re going through, you don’t have to do it.”

 

You screech, whirling on the stranger and it knocks your feet off balance. Your arms swing out to catch yourself, and the stranger leaps forward for your backpack, tugging you away from the edge. He lets you go and you bend at the waist, heart in your throat and pounding away.

 

“Jesus Christ, make some noise next time, would you?” you snap as you straighten. Your next comment dies on your tongue when you take in the man before you.

Tall, bearded, a dark curtain of hair in his handsome, sharply-angled face, and a pair of bright blue eyes that stand out amongst the dark hair and pale skin. He’s dressed in a dark shirt, a flannel tied around his waist, and boots. Behind him, you barely make out the shape of a dog, a shepherd of some kind.

 

His face is etched in concern, hands up in a placating manner, a universal, “I mean no harm”. He’s chewing on his lip, lets it go to speak.

 

“I called out to you, but you were long gone,” he answers, brows drawn down, and a tiny part of you decides you don’t like that look on him. “I wanted to make sure everything was all right. You were just…standing there. I thought you were gonna jump.”

 

Your eyebrows lift a little, higher when his cheeks flush pink. “I wasn’t jumping. I just...got a little lost in thought I guess. Sorry for snapping. You just startled me.”

 

A short silence stretches between you and you shift awkwardly, looking everywhere but at him.

 

“Well, I suppose I’ll head back now. Thanks for...that.” You gesture back at the waterfall’s edge. You step around him, eye his dog that still hasn’t moved, and hit the trail.

 

A few moments later, he jogs to catch up with you. “Can I walk you back at least? It’s getting dark and…”

 

He can read the wariness on your face, his eyes going wide as he shakes his head. “God, no, I’m not a creep, I swear. I just...I know a lot of the people who live around here and I’ve never seen you so…”

 

For some reason, it sets your back to straightening. He senses the change immediately and takes a step back.

 

“For your information, I know this area like the back of my hand. Plus,” you shake the map in your hands, “I have this. Good day.”

 

Whirling on your heel, you leave him rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Momentarily you feel a little badly about snapping at him—again—but you decide it’s not worth it. Unlikely you’ll see him again anyways.


	4. III.

The forest looks quite different as the sun goes down, and you hiss a curse to yourself as you stumble over yet another root you don’t remember being there. The journey back from the falls has taken you longer than you’d have hoped, due mostly to your growing paranoia that the creepy yet oddly attractive woodsman from earlier had followed you back to the cabin. You had paused every so often in your trek back, not only to listen for any following footsteps but to also regain your bearings of the darkening landscape.

But you hadn’t felt that unease of someone watching you—lord knows you’re used to the feeling—and so you continued to stumble and trip your way back to the cabin. You chastise yourself for not leaving a lantern lit, though you hadn’t planned to be out so long. Another stupid decision that you can practically hear both Shawn and your mother criticizing you for.

_ Try using that brain of yours for once, darling. _

_ How are you so stupid? _

Your teeth grind together as their voices bounce around in your head. Though the wilderness is quiet, you’re discouraged that they seemed to have followed you.

_ It’ll take time _ , you recall your therapist saying,  _ to feel like you’re own person again and not someone else’s doormat. _

At the time, it had been a harsh perspective, but looking back, you can see she was only being honest with you. That was what you were—Shawn’s doormat, to answer to his every beck and call and keep your mouth shut while doing so. Meanwhile he saw fit to sneak around behind your back and claim it was  _ your _ fault.

It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth as you, once again, trip in the dark and go down hard to one knee. You grunt with the impact and feel your throat close with rising emotion.

_ Really? You’re going to cry like a child? _

Your exhale is a shudder, rattling in your chest like a baby with a maraca. You’d been having such a good day, too, and all it took to bring it down was the thought of your ex.

_ It’s okay to cry, _ your mental therapist tells you.  _ It’s healthy. You’re not weak for crying. _

Through the mess of tears now tracking down your face (without express permission, thank you very much), you manage to bumble your way back to the cabin. It’s dark and cool inside. Your dinner is a quick sandwich and a glass of wine—two, in fact, if you don’t mind—and you curl up on the couch under the lamp with a book from the shelf.

You fall asleep there, lulled by the sounds of the outdoors creeping in from the open windows. A crick in your neck is your alarm clock the next morning, a grunt scraping your throat as the muscles protest your sitting up. The corners of your eyes are gritty and you can tell they’re a little puffy from your little cryfest the night before, and you dig the heels of your hands in to rub the gunk away.

You take your time in the shower, letting the water cascade down your sore shoulders for a while before you do any washing up. Your hike the day before has left you stiff, muscles unused to being worked in so long, but it’s a pleasant pull every time you stretch a leg or twist at the waist.

By the time you step out, the bathroom is full of steam and warmth, a personal sauna that, for a minute, you consider not leaving. But you dress for the day, brew a pot of coffee, and step over to the window to see the sun streaking through the trees. It’s a pretty sight, and your eyes follow the rays until they find your stepfather’s shed and an idea for the day begins brewing.

The shed now is mostly used for storage. Gardening supplies that have gone relatively unused for years considering the overgrowth of vegetation surrounding the cabin, a massive rolling tool chest that’s padlocked, tire irons and car jacks, oil, filthy, black rags, a mishmash of tools and equipment that’s probably far too rusted now to be of any use. The wooden door squeals on old hinges when you push it open, cough a little at the disturbed dust in the air.

Your very old bike still hangs on the left wall, rusted beyond belief with a loose chain. A deflated basketball, an old push mower you’re not sure even works,  _ aha. _

Your stepfather’s fishing gear has seen better days, but the reel looks to be in decent shape. Inside the tackle box, your stepfather has collected over the years a number of lures, flies, and hooks. Tucking the rod under your arm and gripping the tackle box by its gritty handle, you hum softly and lock the shed back up.

A quick dig through the dirt around the cabin yields a few earthworms to use as bait, and then you’re off. There’s a small pond tucked back into the woods behind the cabin. You’d spent hours there as a child learning all of the tricks your stepfather knew about fishing. 

The water’s like glass when you break through the brush, find a seat on a large flat boulder that juts out into the small clearing. The water is crystal clear and glitters as the sun hits it. You line your rod, dig a small hook out of the box and tie it securely with a fisherman’s knot. A worm on the hook and you cast it out, feel the line with your fingers.

You’re relaxed out here, much more than you’d thought you’d be. The fresh air, the quiet, and the solitude all make for a perfect opportunity to let your worries go. When you’re out here, you don’t think about Shawn, or his transgressions, or the destruction of your marriage. Though you know you’ll have to face it sometime, today is not that day.

A tug on your line pulls your head back out of the clouds, and another, firmer one has you jerking the rod to set the hook. The fish puts up a little bit of a fight, but it’s a rainbow trout so it reels in easily. Its scaled body glimmers almost as you pull the hook from its mouth and lay it beside you. Part of you feels a little guilty letting it die this way, but it’s a part of fishing, as your stepfather would placate a 10-year-old you who couldn’t stop crying.

You slide on another worm and recast your line. This one sits a while longer, and you drift off in thought again.

Part of you wonders why Shawn hasn’t contacted you, hasn’t rubbed it in your face that your marriage is over and he’d already moved on. You suppose he just doesn’t care that much, despite his annoying habit of flaunting all of his accomplishments. You’re not sure which stings more: his willful ignorance of you or if he’d rub his flourishing relationship in your face.

You sigh quietly. You figure you’ll have to continue mending some gaps in your friendships. Some friends had welcomed you back, and your therapist had stressed about how important it is to surround yourself with good, healthy relationships. You make a mental note to call your friend Sarah when you return to the city. 

Another tug, another trout to add to your pile. It’s seamless. Bait, cast, reel, repeat. The sun is climbing higher, sending long shadows across the rock you’re seated upon. You idly play with your bottom lip with your teeth, eyes losing focus as your line tightens and slackens with the minuscule ripples on the water.

Maybe you’ll get a cat when you go home, a new one despite how much you miss  _ your  _ cat, but unfortunately Luna wasn’t in the divorce settlement and Shawn’s name is on her adoption papers. You grunt in displeasure. Bastard even manipulated you out of ownership of your own cat. It may do you some good to have something else living in your apartment with you.

The new apartment is a far cry from the penthouse in which you used to live, but being in a space that’s completely your own is far less lonely. The space is decorated with  _ your  _ style, rather than that of an interior decorator. It feels homey, personal, with knick knacks you’ve collected over the years and artwork that doesn’t make you cringe when you hear the price, and you hardly miss the open, vacant space of the penthouse.

A particularly hard yank on your rod reels you back into your surroundings, and a third trout flops on the rock beside you. As you’re baiting your hook again, a flutter in the bushes behind you has you tensing, hand poised mid-air as the worm wriggles to get free. Whatever is in the bushes moves again, closer this time, and slowly, you set down the worm and turn to look cautiously over your shoulder.

You see nothing in the denseness of the trees, but your eyes are sharp, unmoving, waiting for whatever animal is stalking you to move again. Sweat beads at your forehead, the sliding of the condensation down your face the only movement. Your breath stalls in your chest, the choked gasp a result, when a black dog bounds out of the trees. It’s so furry you’d think it’s a wolf, save for the jingle of the tags on its collar. Wait…

You’ve seen that dog, and your stomach curdles just a bit when a dark figure steps out onto the rock behind the dog. The stranger from the day before looks surprised to see you for a moment and then his features soften. For reasons so far unknown to you, his presence unnerves you.

“S-Sorry,” he begins, voice rough and a little scratchy. “Didn’t think anyone knew about this place.”

“It’s, um, it’s fine,” you unsteadily reply, tucking a strand of hair out of your face. You turn back to your fishing rod, hoping to just ignore the stranger until one of you decides it’s time to leave.

The scuff of boots drawing closer puts a damper on that plan.

He whistles lowly. “Quite a catch there. Seem to know what you’re doing.”

“So it would seem,” you mumble back, wincing slightly as the sharp end of the hook pokes at your thumb. A tiny speck of blood dots your finger. You wipe it off on your pants.

The man steps into your field of vision, looking out over the pond. Hands on his hips, he leans backwards, sighing as there’s an audible  _ crack _ of his spine. You purse your lips, busy yourself with your rod, though you peek up at him from under your lashes.

He’s in all black this time—jeans, hooded sweatshirt, boots. Not typical hiking gear, which leads you to assume he lives somewhere around here. His dog sits on its haunches by his side, body heaving as it pants.

“I love coming out here when it’s like this,” he says. You’re unsure if he’s talking to you, so you stay silent and drop your eyes back to the rod. “So peaceful.”

_ It was _ , you bitterly think. Sighing, you set the rod down and begin to pack up your tackle box. The noise pulls the man’s attention to you. He’s frowning.

“You don’t have to leave,” he says, “there’s plenty of room for both of us.”

You stop packing and stand awkwardly, shifting on your feet. You don’t really want to fish with an audience, and the man’s presence is enough of a distraction that you know you won’t accomplish any therapist-prescribed self-reflection.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” is your automatic response, even though  _ he’s _ the one who’s imposed.

That seems to bother him, as his mouth ticks down even further.

“You were here first.” As if he’s heard your thoughts, he then says, “I can leave, if you want.”

Shit, now you’re being rude. Sighing, you wave a hand and shake your head, reset your rod to cast out again.

“No, no, it’s fine. There’s plenty of room.”

The two of you fall into a not-so-comfortable silence, the stranger alternating between watching you, scratching his dog’s ears, and watching you fish. You feel your face warm every time his eyes are on you, those bright piercing blues. It’s unsettling and you shift a little away from him in an effort to not feel so  _ awkward _ .

“So do you live here?” he questions some time later. A glance over your shoulder shows he’s sitting on the rock now, knees bent with his arms propped on them. Beside him, the dog lays on its side, asleep. His eyes are back on you, and it takes a great deal of strength not to look away. “Like I said the other day, I’ve never seen you before…”

“I don’t live here,” you answer, voice steady as you turn back to your line where it disappears into the murky water. “Just visiting for a while.”

“Oh? Where are you from?” His tone is purely curious, head tilted to one side.

Part of you is reluctant to answer, having learned from Shawn that, when a man speaks to a woman, it’s because he wants her, and nothing else. He isn’t interested in who she is, or what she likes; he’s merely humoring her to get to what he ultimately wants. Shawn had been a shining example of this mindset clearly, but when you look back at the stranger, he’s still watching you, eyes fixed on yours.

In fact, in the time you’ve known the man, he hasn’t once looked at you or spoken inappropriately. 

It sets your teeth on edge.

When you don’t answer, he simply shrugs as if it’s no big deal and says, “I’m originally from Brooklyn. But the city got too stuffy. Too much smog, too many people.”

Internally, you agree. Outwardly, you jerk your rod to set your hook as another trout tugs it downward. You reel slowly.

“Wow, you’re really good with that,” the man comments, rising to his feet suddenly. You take a small step to the side away from him when he moves closer, and immediately, he stops, holds up his hands with a gentle smile. His eyes float to the fish flopping at the end of your line. “Might wanna toss that one back. He looks a little small.”

He’s right. The trout is smaller than your other catches, so you seamlessly pull the hook from his mouth and toss him back. His scales shimmer on the palm of your hand, and you swipe it along your jeans. The man smiles, amused, at the gesture.

“I never got the hang of fishing,” he notes, as if you’d asked. As if any part of your interaction thus far has been wanted on your end. Idly, you hum and distract yourself with baiting your hook again. You’ve got two worms left. “I always felt weird just…standing there, waiting for something to happen. I guess I don’t have a lot of patience.”

Yours is quickly running out, but you keep your face neutral and cast out again. It falls silent between you once more.

And stays that way for a while. The man has taken his seat again and hums lowly under his breath some tune you’re unfamiliar with. You’re on your last worm, the previous one lost to a fish that had taken it before you could set the hook. Despite your initial wariness of the stranger, his presence has been...oddly peaceful. It throws you for a loop a little, but you suppose you should listen to your therapist and work past your denial stage.

It’s early afternoon when you officially run out of worms. Trout strung, you loop the hook through one of the rod’s loops and lock the tackle box. The man shoots upright from where he’s reclined against his dog, who also sits up, ears perked. He blinks sleepiness out of his eyes; you’d noticed he’d begun to doze but remained quiet, letting him sleep.

“What’s going on?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, and you swallow tightly at the roughness of it.

“It’s getting late. I’m leaving.” You lift up your string of fish in a farewell. “See you.”

You turn to head back into the woods and hear him scrambling to his feet behind you. Quietly you sigh.

“Hey, wait! Can I, uh, could I walk you back?” he asks, jogging up to your side. You give him a side-eye, eyebrow raised slightly. 

“Excuse me?”

He doesn’t take offense to the snark in your voice. Instead, he shrugs with a sheepish grin. “My Ma would skin me if she knew I let a woman walk home alone.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t even know you.”

The man’s cheeks turn bright pink and he clears his throat, extends his right arm. “Name’s Bucky. There, not strangers anymore!”

His grin is cheeky, even as the silence between you grows a little uncomfortable. He’s far too perky, too insistent,  _ too much _ . Yet you can’t find it within you to be a complete asshole to him.

“I suppose,” you hear yourself say. Inside your chest, your heart stutters when the man,  _ Bucky _ , smiles wide with a row of perfect, white teeth. It lights up his entire face, including those sparkling eyes of his, and you have to look away. It’s like staring into the sun. 

You continue walking, only pausing when Bucky asks, “Do I get to know your name?”

You tell him, in a tone that’s a little detached, but again, he takes no offense and walks beside you. His dog trots ahead, a black shadow amongst the bright green.

“That’s Natalia,” he offers, catching you watching the animal as it stops some yards ahead and waits. “She’s my…ah, she was a gift from a friend.”

You hum, ignoring his fumble, “She’s beautiful.”

A side glance at Bucky shows he’s grinning proudly, eyes bright and full of love and something else you can’t name for the dog as she yips excitedly when the two of you catch up to her. The lightness in your chest at his smile feels weird, out of place, but not necessarily… _ bad _ , and you chalk it up to having not been around a man who isn’t Shawn in a long time, much less a man as attractive as Bucky.

Internally you sigh at the admission as it slips out, but you’re divorced, a little jaded, but not  _ blind. _ His upbeat, positive attitude only adds to his attraction, and that thought annoys you. You’re supposed to be focusing on fixing yourself, repairing all the damage your marriage to an asshole had done to you. Yet the universe saw it fit to interrupt your path to self-rediscovery by throwing this beautiful specimen of a man in your path.

Outrageous.

You silence the thoughts in your head as you near the cabin, and you grow a little unsteady. Paranoia has you rethinking letting Bucky walk you home. For all you know, he’s a serial killer, and out here, in the Alaskan wilderness, is the perfect setting for his hunting grounds. With no one around for miles and an endless expanse of trees, you’re practically a sitting duck—and you’ve walked right into his trap. Worse, you can’t even break off from him; you’re on the only path to the cabin, and there is nothing stopping him from following you.

The cabin in sight, your rising panic only worsens. You’ve really stuck your foot in it this time, and, unbidden and unwanted, you can hear Shawn’s voice in your head again:  _ How could you be so  _ **_stupid?_ ** _ I swear, you’d be lost without me. _

That grating, chastising tone of his makes the hairs on your arms stand up, brings a prickle of sweat to your brow. The cabin’s even closer now, close enough you can see a small bird on the railing of the porch. Your pace quickens without much thought on it, and you miss the pinch of Bucky’s eyebrows as you race ahead.

It’s when you turn to address him he sees the sheer panic on your face, eyes wide and glimmering. Your throat bobs as you swallow, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Hey, hey,” he starts, but you cut him off before he can get another word out.

“Thanks for walking me back. I have to go.”

And you’re gone, tearing up the rest of the path, flying up the porch steps, and slamming the door behind you. Mouth digging into your knuckles to keep a dry sob down, you watch Bucky as his face contorts in confusion. If you hadn’t known any better you’d say he looks…worried. That unsettles you more, and the tightness in your chest doesn’t ease until he’s whistling to Natalia, speaking to her lowly, and setting off the way you’d come.


	5. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful feedback of the last chapter!  
> Don't forget to support my work at ko-fi.com/lunarlorraine

You’re on the phone with your therapist the next morning, explaining to her your recent setback. You feel kind of ridiculous now, looking back on it, but she’s quick to talk you down from another episode of self-deprecation.

“You’ve admitted your embarrassment,” she says, voice calm and steady where yours is shaky and bordering on hysterical. “Now, you get to acknowledge it and let it go. Learn from it. How are you feeling?”

You sigh, “Better, I guess. I still feel a little humiliated.”

“Okay, so own it. You’re human, you have instincts now that you never used to have. It’s going to take more than a week to get over that.”

“I know,” you murmur, “but I’m not patient, you know that. I hate feeling like this. Like I’m suddenly… _incapable_ of being my own person without Shawn. It’s unfair. He’s obviously not heartbroken over anything.”

“But he wasn’t the victim,” your therapist gently reminds you. You wince, hating the term and the knowledge that that’s exactly what you are. It makes you feel weak and insecure, and that in turn makes you angry. You’re so _angry_.

You say as much, and what she says next surprises you:

“So go destroy some shit.”

You give a short, unamused laugh, as if asking, “You serious?”

“I’m not kidding. You’ve cried, you’re taking time for yourself, so you’re working through your heartbreak and your grief. But what about your anger? Where’s that going?” 

“Nowhere,” you mumble. She hums on the other line. Blowing out a breath, you rake a hand through your hair. “I suppose I can give that a try… There’s some old shit in the shed I can destroy, I think.” 

“Good. Go do that and let me know how it goes.” 

You hang up quietly, tuck your phone under your chin as your vision goes fuzzy, once again lost in thought. Your behavior the day before burns in your brain, bright and unrelenting, like the summer sun with no cloud cover. In response, your face flames and you groan, tipping your head back.

Part of you wonders why you care so much, why the opinion of a _stranger_ matters at all. But the bigger part of you doesn’t want to hide behind your…victim mentality. You swallow heavily at the terminology; your therapist says you need to acknowledge and admit the truth to yourself but, you can’t quite yet. Another hurdle you’ll just have to work at getting over.

You’re pulled out of your head by a dark flash of _something_ along the path in front of the cabin. The blur returns and you realize. 

Natalia.

She’s barking up at the cabin, turning her head to look off down the path. Her owner steps into view a few moments later. You wonder if he owns clothing in any color other than black or grey or blue, for today he’s donning a charcoal quarter-zip and dark blue jeans. His hair is tucked behind his ears, hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets as he saunters up the path and stops twenty feet from the porch.

You duck out of sight, unsure if he can even see you, but you find yourself peering around the curtain anyways. He’s still standing there, eyes narrowed as if he’s debating whether he really wants to approach the cabin. With a quick, resigned nod, his shoulders pulling up as he inhales deeply, he takes a step towards the porch, and then another, and another, until his booted feet scuff along the wood of the porch.

Your eyes fly to the door as there come three soft, tentative knocks. Your belly flutters with something unnameable as you consider ignoring him. But then your conversation with your therapist drifts back into your mind and you sigh silently. Combing your fingers through your hair,  you cross the window to the front door, slide the deadbolt, and pull it open. 

Bucky’s head snaps up, icy eyes wide in surprise, like he expected you not to answer. _Trust me_ , you think, _I was considering it_.

“Bucky,” you greet, and you’re gifted with one of his smiles, though this one is a little less radiant. 

“Hey, I, uh, wanted to come by and make sure you were okay after yesterday. You looked pretty freaked out, so, yeah, I wanted to check and make sure things were good, that you were okay—”

He’s rambling, and before you can stop yourself you’re smiling in amusement, crossing your arms and leaning against the doorframe. Bucky takes in the shift and promptly stops talking, cheeks turning pink all the way to his ears.

“Uh, sorry, got a little carried away there.”

“Mhm.” 

“So, uh, are you okay?” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hands still in his pockets, but you can see his fingers curling and uncurling against the fabric. 

Your small smile drops, and so does Bucky’s. You brush your hair out of your face.

“I’m okay. I, um, I owe you an apology for that little episode. It wasn’t anything you did, but I feel terrible about it.”

He’s waving a hand back and forth. “You don’t need to apologize. I get it.”

You can see he means it when your eyes meet his, the way he holds your gaze hostage so that you can feel the weight and seriousness of his words. It unnerves you, the eye contact, but you hold it anyways. 

Shaking your head a little, you respond, “I do, though, but please know, it wasn’t anything you did.”

Bucky’s face softens to a gentle expression, but his eyes are still serious. “I get it.” 

A silence falls, only slightly uncomfortable, and then you break it. “Would you like some coffee? I can put on a fresh pot.”

He’s surprised by the gesture, if his raised eyebrows and slightly-open mouth are anything to go by, but he remembers himself quickly and glances down at Natalia.

“She’s welcome, too,” you add with a small grin. Bucky mirrors it and you step back to allow the two of them entry.

You try not to hunch your shoulders as Bucky appraises the place, his feet carrying him to the living room where your family’s life has been told in photographs. Natalia sniffs every crevice and corner, twice, before she curls up on the area rug in front of the fireplace and quickly falls asleep. You smile a little at her before turning towards the kitchen. 

You rinse the pot and quickly set another pot to percolate, go about pulling out cream, sugar, and two mugs. Bucky’s standing at the fireplace, leaning forward to examine each photograph. You step up behind him, sure to scuff your feet so he knows you’re there.

“My stepfather,” you tell him. The photo he’s looking at is a photo of you and your stepfather following your very first hunt at the cabin. A large buck with a full rack of antlers lies between the two of you, who are kneeling. 

You’re smiling a big, gap-toothed grin and you smile at the memory. You’d been eight at the time. 

“My mom pitched a total fit when she saw this picture,” you muse. “Said it was very unladylike to go hunting. I don’t think my stepfather slept in their bedroom for a month.” 

Bucky’s shoulders shake with his chuckle, which resonates deep in your chest and stirs something up.

“She sounds…” he trails off, unsure of how to proceed.

“Like a total control freak? Yeah, she is.” Your laugh is a little thin, but it makes Bucky smile at you over his shoulder.

The coffee pot beeps and you lead him into the kitchen, sliding the creamer and sugar to him so he can fix it how he likes. He drops two spoonfuls of sugar into his otherwise black coffee and stirs. You offer him a seat at the small wooden table, and it’s kind of amusing to watch him fold his large frame into the chair. His knees bump the bottom of the table.

You nurse your coffees quietly, the only sound the occasional slurp or Natalia snoring. Your eyes find her dark form, and when she shifts her body, you can see her collar. It’s dark grey, almost invisible against her black fur, but you notice the white stitched lettering that reads _Service Dog_.

You wonder why you hadn’t noticed it before, or why she isn’t wearing a vest, but you suppose the lack of people in this area explains that one. You turn back to see Bucky’s watching you, the corners of his mouth ticked just slightly upward. He twirls his coffee cup in one hand on the wood; the other, he keeps tucked under the table. You flush upon being caught and hide your cheeks behind your coffee cup. 

“How long have you been here?” Bucky asks, shifting to lean back in the chair. The old wood groans. He’s tilting his head, like a curious puppy, as he waits for your answer. 

“A week.” 

“How long you staying?” Still only curiosity in his voice and in his gaze. You purse your lips and shrug.

“Not sure yet. Till I feel like leaving.” 

“What brought you out here?” He crosses his arms over his chest and for a minute you think you see a gleam of something black, or grey. His large body is imposing in the small kitchen, but you feel far from crowded or claustrophobic.

You hesitate in answering, eyes flitting across the pattern of the wood on the tabletop idly. Finally, you settle on, “Haven’t been here in a while. I missed it.” 

His eyes feel heavy on you, and you know he knows you aren’t being completely truthful, but he’s respectful enough of your boundaries not to push. You ask your own questions of him, why he’s here, when he got here. He treats them much the same as you—short and to the point. You realize that your reasons for being way out in the Alaskan bush might be similar than you thought, but neither of you feel comfortable enough breaching those topics. 

The more casual questions and answers come much easier; hobbies, friends, stories from the city. You’re surprised that you’re laughing as much as you are, but then again, Bucky seems to radiate lightness and happiness, despite an obvious cloud that hangs over some of his memories.

He works at the local lumber mill, sometimes, just to keep his wallet full but mostly for the opportunity to stay busy. He says he’s not good when he can think too much, and you’re inclined to agree. There’s a meaningful look that passes between you when you do, a subtle understanding there that you’ve never felt before.

He stays for two more cups of coffee, and you even make the offer of lunch. There’s no way you’ll eat all of that trout before it goes back, so you dig the filets out of the fridge. He offers to help, and you point him in the direction of the salad fixings. It should feel weird how well you move around one another, smooth and as if you’d been doing it for years, but oddly it doesn’t. It just feels…comfortable. 

You fry the fish in butter and garlic expertly, and you can feel Bucky’s eyes on the side of your head. Your face warms; Shawn had all but forced you into the kitchen shortly after you married, insistent that a woman take care of her husband in every sense of the word in some twisted idea of traditionalism.

You don’t realize you’re grimacing until Bucky’s hand gently lands on your shoulder. You peer up at him to see him frowning in concern. 

“You okay? You’re glaring holes into that fish.” He nods down at the pan. You relax your face and your grip on the spatula, flexing your fingers. 

“I’m fine. Just, uh, got a little lost for a second.” You turn back to the food, aware of him still watching you, and then he goes back to dressing the salad. 

The fish is served and the two of you decide to eat outside. Natalia follows, promptly curling up between the two wooden chairs your stepfather built that you and Bucky sit in. It’s a pleasant day, a little cool and overcast, but nice. Bucky scoops a generous portion of fish into his mouth, trying, but failing, to bite back a moan. You smirk as he tilts his head back as he chews, eyes closed as if he’s tasted food from the gods.

“I’m never eating lunch anywhere else again,” he jokes with a wink that makes your stomach flutter. It makes you shift in your chair, averting your eyes back to your food because the way his eyes glitter does something foreign to you.

Quiet again between you, a slight uncomfortable tension in the air. It’s throwing you hard that you feel so at ease around Bucky, that he makes it feel so simple when you haven’t felt this carefree in years. It’s strange, alien, and it’s…terrifying. It scares you how easy it is and so you hide behind your stoic facade again.

Bucky can tell, can almost physically see you withdrawing, and you feel guilty for not being strong enough to tell him why. But he’s the closest thing to a friend you’ve had, and you don’t want to scare him off or have him think you weak and pathetic. You’re not completely sure that he _would_ feel that way, but why risk it?

Bucky and Natalia leave shortly after lunch; he can sense your mood has shifted and has the respect to give you some needed space to clear your head. You watch him go sourly, angry with yourself for pushing him away but not feeling like you had any other choice. His closeness scares you, his ability to make you feel at home and totally comfortable scares you. If he’s close, he can hurt you, and you can’t let that happen. Not again.

You make another pot of coffee but this time some Irish whiskey goes into the mug as well. It’s warm and welcome on your tongue as you sit in the empty living room, eyeing the spot Natalia had lain and had left some of her dark fur. You ignore the slight tremble in your hands and the tightness of your throat that signals another episode and try to push it down with a hefty sip of coffee-whiskey.

Needing something else to focus your mind on, you pick a book from the bookshelf and curl back up on the couch. As you open to the first chapter of _1984_ , your phone vibrates loudly on the coffee table. Eyebrows furrowing, you lean forward and feel yourself pale at the name on the screen. 

You’re not sure what makes you pick it up, but you do, sliding your thumb and lifting the phone to your ear. 

“Shawn?”


	6. V.

The lake doesn’t feel so peaceful despite the quietness along the water, which matches your mood. Turbulent, unsettled, marred by rolling whitecaps as a result of the slightly rough breeze. It’s cool today, and as you sit by the water, you try and let the wind carry your uneasiness away. You’ve been doing good,  _ so good _ , and as if he could hear it, Shawn had to make his reappearance. You’d known he would - he couldn’t let you sit for too long. Had to reassert himself, had to reassert his control.

 

Control you’re fighting like hell to regain and keep.

 

He’d called to taunt you, to remind you that he was moving on, happy. Flaunted it in your face by talking about their upcoming wedding. The wedding you  _ did  _ have, only bigger, better, with even more flowers and the best money could buy.

 

You felt pathetic, irritated that you’d had no confident words to spew at him for his games, and you’re embarrassed by the fact that you’d cried after hanging up the phone. Halfway through another sentence comparing you to Lizzie, and you’d had enough, pulling the phone away and slamming the End Call button as hard as you could. It wasn’t very satisfactory - the effect lost on the development of touchscreen phones.

 

As you sit by the lake, wind rustling the trees and your hair, blowing it around your face, you allow yourself some small victory - you hung up on him, stopped his attempts to bait you in their tracks, regained some control. It’s a small step, but a step forward all the same, and that little bit of optimism, sun through the clouds, brings a small smile to your dampened face.

 

Your therapist will be proud when you tell her, admit how much relief you feel just from the minute act of hanging up the phone. Eventually, you’re sure, you’ll stop picking up if or when he calls again to torment you. You can take back control. 

 

Fall’s approaching. There’s a sharpness to the air now that signals the approaching end of summer, and some of the maple trees have begun to turn bronze. Alaska is pretty like this - one season fading into another and for a minute, you don’t ever want to leave. But then you remember that you should find a job, stop living off of Shawn’s money despite the alimony you’re sure to receive. Maybe you’ll settle some place like Alaska, open and free, without the constraints of a city. Somewhere there’s fresh air, but still society close enough should you need human interaction.

 

For now, you let yourself absorb what the wilderness has to offer.

 

Until your quiet reverie is interrupted by frantic barking some time later. You know only one person with a dog within living distance of you, and despite your instincts to brush it off, you’re overcome with the need to investigate.

 

Natalia finds you first, dark fur standing out against the green of the forest foliage. She winds herself around your feet, nips gently at your pant legs, grabs hold of your sleeve and  _ tugs _ .

 

“What is it, girl?” you ask, and she barks again as she lets you go, tears off into the trees.

 

Without question you follow her, dodging in and out. She doubles back a few times, makes sure you’re still behind her. She leads you past the path back to your cabin, past the waterfall where you first met Bucky.

 

_ Bucky _ .

 

Oh god, what if something bad has happened? Unbidden, your heart clenches tight in your chest, cuts off your air as you run to keep pace with Natalia. You’re not even sure why - you hardly know Bucky but you’re worried regardless.

 

You nearly eat dirt and leaves as your foot catches on a raised root, but you quickly find your balance and push on. Breath coming harshly, you stomp down the painful stitch in your side.

 

Natalia dashes up the steps to a cabin similar to yours, though smaller. Quainter. The front door is open, leading you to believe she’d forced it open in an effort to find help. Or Bucky just left his front door open for the hell of it. Either way, you don’t think twice about running inside.

 

The lights are off, and despite the sunlight, you can hardly see a thing. Natalia’s nails click on the floor as she runs down the hall, barks three times from another room, and you do your best to follow it, feel your way across the cabin’s small space, stub your toe on a corner of a wall. Grimacing, you skim your hand along the wall until it meets the wood of a door frame. 

 

“Bucky?” you call into the room, where you can hear Natalia panting and whining lowly. You squint in the dull lighting, barely making out a shape hunched on the floor beside the bed.

 

“‘M here,” he answers, voice low and monotone - empty. It twists your heart painfully, face tugging into a look of concern, and you approach slowly.

 

“Are you okay? Natalia found me…” you offer by way of explanation. In the dark, you see Bucky duck his head, hear his heavy sigh.

 

“I’m...I’m okay. You don’t have to worry.”

 

Lips pursing at that, you lower slowly to your knees in front of him. His eyes glitter in the dark where they’re focused on his knees, bent and hugged to his chest. Carefully you lay a hand on his arm, and you feel his body go rigid. Beneath your palm, his forearm is hard and unyielding. He shifts it out from under you, tucking it close to his body, shielding it, lets your hand drop to his knee.

 

“Bucky, what happened? Why are you in the dark?” Your voice feels loud in the still silence, against the quiet breaths of the man in front of you. Breaths when you really listen to them, quicken, shorten. Your fingers curl into his knee. “Hey, Bucky, you’re okay. Deep breaths okay?”

 

His breathing slows again, and you can feel him relax a little. Piece by piece, inch by inch, he unfurls his body until he’s a little more open, a little more spread out. You sit back on your heels, give him a little more room.

 

“S-Sorry,” he whispers, and in the dimness you see him drag a hand down his face.

 

“It’s okay.” He moves as you speak, rises to his feet to flick on the bedside lamp. Soft orange throws deep blue shadows across his walls, and you forego examining his room to scrutinize him instead.

 

He looks...rough. Deep circles under his eyes, a haunted look within them that you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. His hands are buried in his sweatshirt pocket, shoulders hunched in a way that suggests he’s trying to hide. You stand as well, rethink reaching out for him. You don’t know him that well, despite the way his obvious struggle tugs at your heart.

 

“Can I make you some tea? Or fix you a drink?”

 

Bucky looks like he’s ready to decline, mouth opening to do so as the wall goes up behind his eyes, but he closes it. Nods, just once. Follows you out into the living room, flicking on the lights as he goes. The inside of his home is no surprise to you - mostly empty, save for a couple personal trinkets here and there. Otherwise, no decor on the walls, a tattered rug in front of the fireplace, no other signs that this is his home.

 

It saddens you for reasons you’re unsure of, but you let it go for now and busy yourself with filling the kettle. Bucky takes down two mugs and then reaches above the fridge, takes down a bottle of amber liquor that’s about a quarter full. He upends it into his mug, takes a long sip of it and avoids your curious gaze.

 

When the kettle whistles, you fill both mugs, regardless of the alcohol still in Bucky’s. He drops a tea bag into it and lets it steep, gestures to the living room where a ratty couch sits. You sit at the far end, opt to give Bucky some space to clear his head, but to your surprise he sits close to you, close enough that his thigh brushes yours.

 

“‘M sorry you had to see that. That Natalia bothered you,” he says gruffly after some time. The dog looks up at the sound of her name, tilting her head curiously.

 

You shake yours, fingers warm from your mug of tea. “She didn’t. I’m actually...glad she found me. She seemed really riled up.”

 

His smile is tight, uncomfortable, and he shifts on the couch. “She’s really in tune to my….to me.”

 

It isn’t the whole truth, but you don’t push. Sip from your tea and busy yourself by looking around the room. Now that you’re not overcome with worry for Bucky, you can look a little more closely. The fireplace is covered in soot, a half-burnt log inside it. The paint is chipping in places on the wall above the mantel. 

 

In the center of it is a single photograph. You can’t make out the faces too clearly, but there are four of them in the photo - three men, one woman. You avert your eyes lest you stare too long, but Bucky’s noticed. His shoulders are stiff and there’s a pinch to his lips as he stares hard at the photograph. Awkwardly you sit and drink your tea until the mug is empty.

 

You ask before you can think about it: “Why were you sitting in the dark?”

 

Bucky’s breathing hitches, and you grimace, an apology on your tongue. But before you can utter it, he simply says, “I get panic attacks. I had a bad one and...and that’s why Natalia found you.”

 

Again, he keeps it short, speaking quickly - there’s more he isn’t telling you, but you daren’t push. He’s still skittish, erratic, eyes bouncing around the apartment only to settle on that photograph again for a moment. It clearly holds significance for him, if the way his eyes strain just slightly when he focuses on it, the shadow that seems to pass over his face.

 

It spreads throughout the room, darkening it despite the lights he’d turned on earlier. Obviously his mood is souring again, and you feel awkward, your skin itching with the urge to get away - back to your cabin where you can fret and overthink in peace. The phone call with Shawn left you on edge, a raw nerve ripe for irritation, and Bucky’s stony, less-than-pleasant demeanor is rapidly putting you off.

 

He must sense your rising panic, because he looks over at you, the tension in his face softening just a bit to something more somber, something sadder.

 

“I’m sorry I’m making you uncomfortable,” he utters, taking you mildly by surprise. He rubs at his forehead and drops his eyes - a truly pitiful look rife with self-loathing. It breaks your heart.

 

“N-No,” you argue, and he gives you a skeptical look. “I understand. I understand really well actually. Um, my, um...my ex...he called me, after you left yesterday. It, uh, it threw me for a bit of a loop. My head’s a little all over the place.”

 

It’s the most you’ve ever given him about your history, about your struggle, and you can see his face softening, an invitation for you to open up more. But your tongue feels heavy enough after giving even as little information as you have, and you stay quiet, pick at a seam in your jeans idly.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, but this time he isn’t talking about his panic attack or pulling you from whatever you’d been doing. He’s apologizing that your ex still seems to have a hold over you.

 

If only he knew.

 

_ He could _ , a small, quiet voice chirps in the back of your head. Its presence stills you as Bucky’s gaze burns the side of your face while he watches you.  _ He could if you let him in. _

 

God, how you want to. Despite the terror you feel at getting close to another person, you feel that tug in your heart - the one you felt for Shawn when you first met him. The desire to experience that intimacy with another person, it both thrills you and frightens you. Frightens you so badly you still feel that urge to run.

 

“I’m okay, if you’d like to leave,” Bucky says, and he says it with a gentle smile. His eyes, though, are tinged with sadness at the thought of you leaving - and you don’t know what to do. He knows you’re uncomfortable and he’s giving you an out.

 

Do you really want to take it?

 

Sensing your struggle, Bucky stands up, extends a hand. “How about a walk? Fresh air might do us both some good.”

 

You eye his hand warily, flickering between it and his face - open, completely readable. He wants you to say yes, but he won’t make you.

 

That flutter in your heart again at his patience, it’s all the resolve you need.

 

You take his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated! ♥


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